


Little White Lies

by Ijustwannaread



Category: White Collar
Genre: Awesome Elizabeth Burke, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Peter Burke/Neal Caffrey, Neal is a mess, Obliviousness, Protective Elizabeth, Sick Neal Caffrey, Sickfic, kinda though?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 02:36:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17357309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ijustwannaread/pseuds/Ijustwannaread
Summary: Neal is a bit of a pathological liar when he's sick. Peter and Elizabeth take issue, but Neal is just trying to hold it together.





	Little White Lies

It is 7:05 on a Friday morning, and winter has struck Manhattan with a vengeance. When Neal Caffrey pries his eyes open at the trill of his alarm, he is forced to blink against the dull brightness of a new snow. There are tiny snowflakes flooding from the sky, flying almost horizontally with each gust of wind. Neal shivers as though the chilling wind could penetrate the walls of his loft.

There is something hideously distasteful about the entire idea of leaving his soft, heavy duvet cover and facing the day. Winter in Manhattan means six inches of slush ruining his shiny black leather shoes, and numb toes for the rest of the day. It means his fingers will be frozen and stiff, and the cold dry air will be oppressive and hateful, leaving chapped skin and general grossness.

Admittedly, Neal's sudden despair over the winter gloom might have less to do with the weather and more to do with the charmingly persistent illness he's been fighting off for too long now. The previous days of the week have passed in a blur of Dayquil, drawn-out morning showers, and surreptitious trips to the bathroom to clear his throat against the tell-tale roughness that always became harder to hide over the course of a day. It meant drinking herbal teas instead of coffee, but then still buying a four dollar cup before work to keep up appearances, even if the acidity of the caffeine aggravated his sore throat too much to even attempt to gulp down.

Fortunately for him, the office had been a buzz during the week with the promise of a sting leading to multiple arrests. Neal has actually been excited to participate, trying to smother his own petty grins as he dishes intel on one of his most high profile rivals in the art forgery scene. Today is the final preparation before the agents enter the field. But instead of reveling in the thrill of the chase, Neal is folding under the grim exhaustion of a long con.

Neal forces himself out of bed only because of the knowledge that this is the final stretch. He will survive this day, and then he will have the entire weekend of solitude to recuperate. After a two day hibernation period he can return to the FBI office in top form, no one the wiser.

The second that Neal pulls back the blankets, his arms are covered in goosebumps, and he shivers his way to the thermostat to crank it up five more degrees. Bless June and her extravagantly well-heated home.

It takes Neal thirty minutes in the scalding shower, a steaming cup of tea, and three Advil before he can swallow without wincing. Good enough. Provided that everyone in the office is adequately distracted, he can pull this off. He flips on his hat for good measure, and smiles once for practice.

 

–

The second Neal steps off the elevator and into the office, the hectic atmosphere is overwhelming. Everyone seems to be either at their desk and furiously flipping through reports, or is chatting animatedly about the bullpen. He checks his watch absently, already calculating how many hours are left before he can pop more painkillers.

Neal only has a moment to gather himself at his workspace before a file lands on his desk with an aggressive slap. He starts, and hopes that he isn't visibly sweating. It's nine am, and he already feels like a goddamn mess.

“Morning, Neal.” Peter Burke is looming over his desk, ostensibly staring right through him. Peter seems ready to speak until he gets a good look at Neal, then gives him a visible once over and changes his approach.

“What's wrong?” He asks, sharply. His eyes are scanning Neal in a way that makes him feel like he was just caught with a bag of stolen artifacts and a loaded pistol. His heart begins racing, and he wonders if he made his breakfast tea too strong. But Neal is a con man first and foremost, so he can think on his feet.

“There's a mistake on the character file for Alphonse Weber. That's not going to bode well in the field next week.” He says flatly.

A lie. He had spent most of yesterday going over the profiles for the associates of the crime ring in question, but hadn't really parsed through any salient facts, as the majority of yesterday had passed with his head swimming through a headache, causing the words to blur together lazily on the dry FBI formatted pages. Still, Neal spent the majority of 2002 in a Friday night poker group with these men. There are always plenty of mistakes in the FBI files. Usually, it's an entertaining pastime to see just how out of touch the agency was with these characters. Now, not so much.

Peter's eyes flicker to Hughes' office. The final conference in which the team will finalize the profiles is likely be called no later than noon. Time is short.

“I need your annotated copy of the file in by 11:00, then.” Peter says, blissfully taking the bait. He sets his own cup of coffee down on Neal's desk.

“You look tired,” he offers, and then raises his eyebrows challengingly. Neal takes a long sip of the coffee, and then grimaces theatrically to mock the horrendously stale office brew that Peter survives on the regular. Peter just snorts in exasperation and finally turns to heckle the rest of the office.

 

–

By quarter part one, Neal is queasy from brutally stomaching the greasy office takeout during the conference, his head is pounding from frantically flipping through the Weber report to find an error that would be relevant to his earlier “concern,” and he feels like he swallowed knives every time he swallows. Making it to five o'clock is... not an option anymore. Peter will offer him a ride home, and Neal is sure that his ruse will never pass the scrutiny of rush hour traffic spent three feet from his agonizingly perceptive2 boss. He doesn't need to look in a mirror to tell that his disgustingly swollen glands in his throat will be very apparent under the unforgiving New York street lights.

Even though he's not proud of the sloppiness of his plan, Neal cracks. He texts Mozzie to call him, then takes the call in the hallway when he knows that Diana and Jones see him. Afterwards, he slogs his way to Peter's office. Usually, before a con, he feels a rush of adrenaline, lingering excitement. Now, he just swallows thickly against increasing nausea.

He knocks twice on Peter's doorframe, but doesn't wait for a response before he speaks.

“Peter, June just called me. There's been a family emergency and she needs me to come down and take care of some things at the house before she leaves for upstate.” Neal prays that the pale desperation in his face comes off as concern for his beloved housemate.

Peter's expression darkens across the room, and he is silent for a terrifying moment. Neal is intimately aware that this is the flimsiest ruse he has ever attempted.

“Okay. My meeting will probably run over, anyway,” Peter says, eyes narrowed. One of the perks of being a high profile criminal is that Neal is explicitly not invited to meetings of a certain caliber, such as this one. “Be ready for a text if something comes up, though, Neal.” Peter adds cooly.

Neal doesn't care at all about the nature of Peter's acceptance, because every fiber in his body is relaxing at the prospect of freedom. He gives a short nod and what he thinks translates as a tight smile, and then shakily makes an exit.

 

–

Neal falls asleep in the taxi home, prompting the driver to shoot him a wary glance in the rear view mirror. Luckily, after Neal blearily throws a wad of cash at him and grits out a hoarse “keep the change,” all is well.

Once in the safety of his own room, Neal has the energy to perform two tasks: text Mozzie not to come tonight because he's sick (thank God for hypochondria, it will keep his friend at bay for _days_ ), and to drag all of the throw blankets from his couch onto his bed.

After that, Neal Caffrey is out like a light. It is three in the afternoon.

 

–

When Peter opens the door to his house, it is eight at night. The house is dark except for the light in the kitchen, where Elizabeth is reading a magazine and nursing a glass of red wine. He told her he would be home late, but something about how beautiful she looks haloed in the warm lighting of their house sends pangs of guilt into him. Peter sighs.

“Hey, hon!” He calls, shucking off his snow covered coat and slipping haphazardly out of his slushy shoes.

Elizabeth smiles warmly. She stands up to kiss him.

“How was your day?” She says, tone indicating that she can read on his face precisely how it went. He tells her anyway.

“Trying.” He supplies. Elizabeth raises her chin expectantly, and then reaches for a wine glass for her husband.

“Neal lied today. Made up some story to get out early.”

“How do you know it was a lie?” She asks for good measure. Peter takes a long sip of wine and gives her a look.

“It was the most obvious fake out I've heard.” He said.

“Well, that doesn't sound like Neal.” She frowns, thoughtfully.

“He's been... off all week. This case has been so busy I didn't want to deal with it until now.” Peter said, mechanically opening his work computer to look up Neal's tracking data.

“Off how?”

Peter considers this.

“He seemed exhausted, El. And distracted.” Peter begins imagining all of the late night activities Neal might have been up to. Suddenly, he wonders if Neal had been playing two sides of their sting, maybe warning old friends of the FBI's every move...

“Maybe he's just sick.” El says. Peter looks at her, caught off guard.

“Why would he lie about that, though?”

Elizabeth smiles fondly and admonishingly.

“When was the last time you were willing to admit you were sick, Peter Burke? I seem to recall the last time you had the flu I practically had to chain you to the bed you were so stubborn about it.”

Peter flushes a bit.

“Huh. And they call me an FBI agent.” He says. It seems crystal clear now, his CI's behavior today.

“If only every FBI agent had a woman's intuition,” Elizabeth says, and Peter cracks a grin.

His smile fades a bit when he thinks about how grey faced Neal had been all day.

“Hon, you should have some dinner. There's some leftover lasagna in the fridge.” El says, and Peter responds.

Whatever is going on with Neal, he has the weekend to sort it out.

–

 

Whatever is going on with Neal, he is going to have to suck it up pronto. Early Saturday morning, Hughes calls Peter will about a million unanswered questions about Neal's intelligence on Weber, which apparently has become a crucial point in the operation. Something about chain of knowledge and needing both more information about how Neal came to the knowledge to prove its authenticity, as well as needing plenty more intel before the meet-up, which was moved up.

Peter texts Neal twice, then three times asking to meet, but receives no response. It is uncharacteristic. Despite the tensions of the week, Peter had sensed Neal's interest in the case, and he is always responsive when they are on an interesting case. Between the second and third texts, Peter feels suspicion creeping back into his mind, and begins to doubt his own objectivity.

Peter throws his phone onto their bed, and digs out a pair of khakis from his closet. Is he anxious to prove himself and his unorthodox use of Neal's underworld knowledge and expertise, or is he worried about his friend? In the strangeness that was his relationship with Neal, somehow those conflicting feelings had taken root and were increasingly hard to reconcile. Too bad the bureau writes more literature on anti-fraternization laws than they do on navigating a cat and mouse game with slippery coworkers/friends.

“El! Do you want to come with me to Neal's?” He calls to his wife in the adjacent laundry room, where she is folding sheets.

“Peter...” Elizabeth's tone is cautious, but he knows that she'll say yes. She likes Neal as much as he does, and trusts him more.

 

–

Peter and Elizabeth park their car outside of June's, a street where luckily most of last night's snow has been plowed. The sky is bright and cloudless, but more snow has been forecasted for the afternoon. Elizabeth agreed to come with him under the guise of their going out to a museum later. They both know it's just an alibi.

June had also been non-responsive. Luckily, a few months prior during a late night gathering she had slipped Peter a key to the back entrance after a few whiskeys, accompanied by a suggestive wink. Peter hadn't had the occasion to use it until now, nor had he any desire to dwell on the meaning behind that particular interaction.

He and Elizabeth let themselves in back, holding hands and feeling oddly conspiratorial. The house is quiet but warm. They climb the grand central staircase gingerly, both simultaneously feeling out of place in the ornate and somewhat austere decoration.

When they reach the familiar door Peter doesn't hesitate to knock twice, loudly.

–

 

From far off, Neal hears the staccato of fist of wood that is so classically Peter Burke urgency. He is tangled hopelessly in blankets, and he feels like _death_. Against all odds, Peter's sudden presence sets off alarm bells in his mind that send his body into motion. His legs are wobbly, but support him, but he has to take a pit stop propped up against the dining table to ride out a long head rush. Although he doesn't trust his voice he calls, “Coming!” This sends daggers of pain to his throat and stinging tears to his eyes, but all in all he doubts his painful voice sounds that bad through the doorway.

I can do this, he thinks. He manages to swallow four Advil, nearly choking through the pain. He throws on his dressing robe, hoping to look blasé and rumpled in a “I'm enjoying a leisurely Saturday morning” way. After a splash of freezing water in his face, Neal hopes he looks almost normal.

With that, he throws the door open.

“What's going on?” Neal asks, trying not to sound rude but really unable to fight through the disorientation. He doesn't even know what time it is.

“Hi, Neal,” Elizabeth says, by which time Neal has been able to process that she came with Peter. He doesn't know what to make of her presence, but more urgently the searching expression she has, and how her brow furrows when she looks at him. Mechanically, he steps aside and gestures them to come in. He notices that Peter isn't dressed for the office. Unfortunate. If he had his gun on him, Neal might be tempted to ask Peter to take him out back and shoot him.

“I'm sorry if this is a bad time, Neal,” Peter says, stepping inside. “But Hughes is breathing down my neck about the case, and I really need you to verify some sources for me. The profiling team is working overtime to be ready for the op.” Peter says, and he's being so apologetic that it makes Neal's teeth hurt.

“I tried to message you, but you didn't respond. I did warn you to be responsive,” Peter adds, curtly. That's more like it, Neal thinks.

“Sorry, my phone died,” Neal blurts, and pulls out a chair for his guests. He kicks himself. His phone is laying on his bedside table, incriminatingly and obviously alive. He turns to the stove to avoid witnessing the inevitable skeptical look that Peter and Elizabeth exchange. He can practically feel it.

“I was going to make some of June's English breakfast. Would anyone like some?” Neal asks, turning on the kettle.

“Sure, Neal, that would be lovely,” Elizabeth replies. Peter doesn't respond, busy opening his work laptop and pulling up files. Normally, Peter's computer skills are atrocious, chicken-plucking at keys and spending ages sorting through his messy file system, but it's clear from the velocity of his typing now that he's trying to be merciful and get this done. Neal distantly wonders just how shit he looks.

 

–

Elizabeth sips at her tea and feels murderous. Judging from the way Neal looks now, she has no doubts that he's been ill for a while. She can't figure out if she's more frustrated with her well-meaning husband for being so goddamn oblivious or with Neal for being unnervingly and unnecessarily shady and strangely incapable of self-advocating. Men, she muses.

Neal is flipping fervently through one of the files that Peter offered, and Peter is oscillating between glaring at his computer screen and sneaking glances at Neal.

To break their odd impasse, Peter's work cell rings. Muttering, Peter picks it up and makes a beeline for the hallway. FBI secrecy, typical.

The second the door closes behind Peter, Neal deflates. He runs his hand across his face and then leaves in there to prop up his head as he tries to focus on the writing in front of him.

Elizabeth takes one more long look at him. Neal's face is entirely devoid of color, and his glands are so swollen she can almost feel them from across the room. His voice has sounded raw and weary every time he speaks, and he has spoken alarmingly infrequently. The part of her that's fighting her maternal instincts just throws in the towel.

“How long have you been sick?” She asks, breaking the silence. Neal looks at her, struggling to maintain a neutral expression but landing somewhere in between taken aback and guarded.

“I'm not-”

Elizabeth slides her hand over Neal's to stop him.

“If you say you're fine honestly, Neal, that's going to be a bit of an insult to my intelligence.”

Neal looks devastatingly like a child caught staying up too late by his parents, wide eyed and undone.

He looks down at the table.

“About a week,” he says, monotone, and it's not clear what hurts more, his throat or making the admission.

Elizabeth feels alarm bells ringing in her head. A week. She reaches her arm out and places her palm on Neal's cheek, personal space be damned. His eyes meet hers, questioning, and he tenses. More importantly, his skin is on fire.

“Did you take anything this morning? Ibuprofen, Tylenol, anything?” Elizabeth asks, moving her hand briefly to the nape of his neck, assessing.

“A few Advil right before you got here,” he says, and Elizabeth simultaneously is grateful that he's clearly telling the truth now, but uneasy that Neal is sporting a high fever in the morning after already taking medication.

She stands up and rummages through his cupboards to find a dusty glass, rinses it and fills it with cold water.

“Elizabeth, I-” Neal starts, searching for words. She gives his arm a squeeze, and places the water next to him.

“Don't take this the wrong way, but please don't talk. It's hurts _me_ to hear you,” she says, and Neal pulls a wan smile. He mimes zipping his mouth and throwing away the key.

Elizabeth strides across the room after her husband.

 

–

Peter just hangs up the phone and turns to return to Neal's loft when his wife emerges. He starts to speak but she is quicker.

“Neal's pretty sick,” She says. Peter blows out a sigh.

“How much more do you need from him tonight? He's running a pretty high fever, I doubt he's going to be up for much more.”

“Damnit, Neal,” Peter says, running a hand over his mouth. “I'm his boss, not a mindreader. He could have asked for some time,” he says.

“I know.” El runs her hand up and down his arm.

“Okay.” Peter squares up, takes Elizabeth's hand, and walks into Neal's loft again.

“Neal, get dressed.” Peter commands, gathering up the files on the table. Neal, slow on the uptake, blinks owlishly for a moment.

“The office?” He asks, and straightens himself, mouth set grimly.

“Nope,” Peter replies, “It's Saturday, El and I are going on a date. There's a decent urgent care clinic on the way, we can drop you off.” Neal pauses for a moment. Peter wonders if he's contemplating making a break for the window before he just nods, defeated, and marches to the door to his dressing room find some clothes. Elizabeth squeezes his hand.

 

When Elizabeth and Peter pick Neal up from urgent care, with a newly minted prescription for antibiotics, they tell him that the weather is too bad to risk making the trip back to June's. Not a single snowflake falls through the day, but after Neal falls asleep on their couch, no one mentions a word.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I, like Neal, always want to crawl into a hole and die when anything is even vaguely wrong with me, so if he seems like a total irrational idiot the way I characterized him, I don't know what else to tell you. This is my whumpy ode to my love for the complex trust (or lack thereof) and affection between Peter and Neal in this show, and my love for emotionally constipated men. 
> 
> Please drop a comment, it would make me so happy!


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